<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>That's What She Said by provocative_envy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595570">That's What She Said</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy'>provocative_envy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/F, Getting Together, Humor, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:08:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>Ginny drags her hands down her thighs and reaches for her skate guards.</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>She fully blames the swooping, quivering lurch in her stomach—like butterflies if butterflies were capable of ingesting one of the twins’ gross little Ziploc baggies full of psychedelic mushrooms—on how much she still misses hockey. Misses hitting things. </i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cho Chang/Ginny Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>170</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>That's What She Said</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was written for my <a href="https://provocative-envy.tumblr.com/post/620017038370504704/hi-yall-for-the-first-time-in-checks-notes">ficraiser</a> over on tumblr; thank you for the donation, @suh-wheat! i hope you enjoy this!</p>
<p>xoxo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Ginny is yanking at her leg warmers, roughly shoving them down to cover her skates, itchy red cotton catching on the ratty split-ends of her double-knotted laces, when the summer league team tramples into the locker room, a cacophony of boisterous giggling and competitively loud voices and mindless, gentle, easy chirping.</p>
<p>Cho Chang, specifically, tramples into the locker room.</p>
<p>Cho Chang, in a neon-pink sports bra and a sheer white tank top, with a bulky black hockey bag slung over her shoulder, her hair tied back in a lumpy, messy, bizarrely endearing ponytail. She’s smiling, teeth glinting white and straight in the ugly yellow unflattering-to-literally-everyone-else fluorescent lighting, but her smile flickers, <em>freezes</em>, when she notices Ginny.</p>
<p>Ginny drags her hands down her thighs and reaches for her skate guards.</p>
<p>She fully blames the swooping, quivering lurch in her stomach—like butterflies if butterflies were capable of ingesting one of the twins’ gross little Ziploc baggies full of psychedelic mushrooms—on how much she still misses hockey. Misses hitting things.</p>
<p>Pucks.</p>
<p>Glass.</p>
<p>People.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s just, like,” Ginny says, swishing a limp, greasy onion ring around the puddle of ketchup on her napkin, “we both dated Harry, right, but neither of us particularly <em>enjoyed </em>dating Harry, so why are we all—” She makes a vague stabbing motion. “Awkward? Angry?”</p>
<p>Luna blinks at her, owlish, bemused, absently rubbing at the glittery, pastel-colored paint streaking her forehead. Like fish scales. “Is that what you are?”</p>
<p>“Is that what I’m—what?”</p>
<p>“Angry,” Luna says. “Are you angry with her?”</p>
<p>Ginny frowns. “Jesus, no, of course not, I don’t even—it’s not like I <em>think</em> about her often enough to be <em>angry</em> about . . . whatever. No. <em>No.</em>”</p>
<p>Luna leans forward to slurp at her milkshake. There are paper clips pierced through her ears, intermittently dotted with dabs and stripes of White-Out. She looks thoughtful. Scarily, disconcertingly, dreamily thoughtful.</p>
<p>“Then you must perceive <em>her</em> feelings for <em>you</em> as angry.”</p>
<p>“I mean—”</p>
<p>“Is that what bothers you?” Luna presses, blinking some more. Her eyelashes are the kind of blond that’s translucent at the tips, reddish-brown everywhere else. Like miniature dip-dyed folding fans. “That <em>she’s</em> angry?”</p>
<p>Ginny clenches and unclenches her jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe.”</p>
<p>“Because you want her to like you.”</p>
<p>“What the shit, man, that isn’t what I said.”</p>
<p>“And you feel like if <em>you</em> can move past the resentment you clearly harbor for her chosen career path, then <em>she </em>should be able to move past—”</p>
<p>“Okay, no,” Ginny interrupts, huffing out a strangled, only slightly hysterical laugh, “that’s <em>definitely</em> not what I said.”</p>
<p>Luna finally stops blinking. “Are you disagreeing with my assessment of the situation?”</p>
<p>“Not—exactly,” Ginny hedges. “But she has no <em>logical reason</em> to hate me! That’s my point! It’s stupid!”</p>
<p>Luna hums like this is the answer she expected all along.</p>
<p>Ginny just squeezes her onion ring until the breading slides off.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Ginny is mostly bent in half, her leg propped up on the boards at center ice, her hands cupping her ankle as she stretches out her hamstring and grimaces into her own kneecap.</p>
<p>Fuck the triple salchow.</p>
<p>Fuck the triple axel.</p>
<p>Fuck the triple anything, honestly, and especially fuck the <em>quadruple </em>anything, because human bodies really shouldn’t—</p>
<p>“Hey,” a soft, feminine, hesitant, frustratingly familiar voice calls out, “are you, um, are you almost done?”</p>
<p>Ginny startles violently enough that she gasps and slips backwards and falls on her ass, tailbone bouncing, arms wind-milling, hamstring positively <em>screaming</em> as she hyperextends it, her hips twist away from the boards.</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>shit</em>,” Cho Chang says, and the sound of her rushing over, of her skates carving through the ice—that sharp, crisp, telltale <em>swish</em>—it shouldn’t be so distracting. So appealing. So <em>attractive. </em>Cho’s always been a fantastic skater. Fast. Smooth. Graceful. Insanely, ridiculously, appallingly graceful. If either of them was going to trade hockey pads for a sequined Lycra onesie, it probably shouldn’t have been Ginny. “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>Ginny flaps her wrist, gingerly sitting up. “Fine. I’m fine. Super fine.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Cho asks, biting her lower lip. Chewing on it. On the cushion of it. And, like—why? Why is she involving her <em>lips?</em> “That looked pretty bad.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Ginny climbs to her feet. Wobbles for a second. Grunts, except it’s more like a high-pitched warble. Like a <em>bird. </em>“It felt pretty bad, too.”</p>
<p>“Sorry.”</p>
<p>“Not your fault.”</p>
<p>There’s a heavy, uncertain beat of silence.</p>
<p>“Wow, so, you’re, um, you’re <em>really </em>flexible,” Cho says, just as Ginny takes an unnecessary breath, and disconnects her brain from—well, that’s debatable—and blurts out:</p>
<p>“Hey, why don’t you like me?”</p>
<p>Cho’s face twitches oddly. Defensively. “Why don’t I—excuse me?”</p>
<p>Ginny scrunches her nose up, wondering if it’s worth pretending she, like, tore her Achilles or dislocated her shoulder or—no. No, fuck that. She’s a big girl. A grown-up. She can handle a little tension. A little <em>confrontation.</em> She’s putting her money where her mouth is. Cashing those checks. Whatever.</p>
<p>“You don’t like me,” Ginny says bluntly. “It’s obvious. I’m just . . . curious? About why?”</p>
<p>Cho pauses, those finely plucked brows furrowed. Pinched together. Her skin is summer-bronze, a darker shade of brown than usual, and the wing of her eyeliner is smeared up towards her hairline on one side. Her gaze is intent. Contemplative. Like she’s <em>studying</em> Ginny. Trying to figure her out.</p>
<p>“You think,” Cho says carefully, “that I don’t <em>like</em> you?”</p>
<p>Ginny shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but very likely missing that target by an embarrassingly large, embarrassingly transparent margin. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>Cho’s lips begin to curve upwards. “Ginny.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“That is . . .” Cho trails off, a true, real, <em>wide</em> smile breaking through. “That is the <em>opposite</em> of what’s going on here.”</p>
<p>Ginny stares at Cho, her heart pounding. Her pulse racing. She feels a lot like she just tripped and fell again, a lot like she just nailed one of those gravity-defying jumps with a crazy Russian name, like she’s simultaneously drunk on adrenaline and alarmed by the twinge of an important muscle and deeply impressed with herself.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she says, and the possibilities—of how to respond, of what to do next—they seem so suddenly, undeniably <em>endless</em>. “Okay. Cool.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com">come join me in hell</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>